


the word made flesh

by voksen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ex- three-sentence fic given more sensible punctuation; prompt "Valjean manhandling Parnasse with his super-strength." Set in some vague post-canon AU where Montparnasse finds Valjean again after Cosette marries Marius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the word made flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



“God—!” Montparnasse said, the word leaping free of him against his will like blood from a wound — he could no more stop it on his lips than he could have stopped his eyes from looking: the old man’s impossibly broad back was ridged and creased like ruined leather, more scar than skin. It seemed incredible to him that any man, even this one, could have survived the cause of it.

Valjean straightened and saw him in the doorway. He dropped his nightshirt to the bed and crossed, naked and apparently unashamed ( _did they have nightclothes in prison?_ Montparnasse wondered suddenly, his mind alight with the scattered useless thought the old man always startled him into) to face him — shoved him, before Montparnasse could step out of the way, fully up against the wall just inside the room; his gaze intense, their faces, their bodies, no more than an inch apart.

“Look!” he said, “look if you want to - if you must see the truth of it to believe in what I am telling you; if you cannot imagine the lash without seeing the mark—” 

He left one hand on Montparnasse’s chest, pinning him to the wall; seized his right hand with the other and wrapped it about himself, pressing it to the thick-webbed scars. Montparnasse’s fingers splayed across a dozen at once, against the thick powerful muscle beneath. 

“—Then look at me; see a thief, see the brand of prison, the brand of dishonest work; the rack of the law — see that I do not want this for you, boy — that this does not have to be your story, that you still have time left to take another road even if you think you do not—” 

But Montparnasse was no longer listening; between the hand at his throat, the growl of the old man’s fervent voice, the promise of power beneath his fingertips, his thoughts were spinning beyond comprehension; at last his control, too, broke, and he lunged forward and caught the old man mid-word, biting at his mouth in an almost-kiss that had his lips, when he finally thrust Montparnasse back into the wall again, as cherry-red as Montparnasse’s own — and his eyes as wild.


End file.
